The Marcher Lord (Over Guard) Page 17

  Ian was also fairly amazed at how much of a temporary change the success of the hunt brought about in Lord Wester. Back at camp, his conversation was more animated, more willing to exchange details, even as he lay back against a pack in the relative darkness where their low fire didn’t touch. The pipe he had in his mouth created thick and lazy wafts of smoke that reluctantly rose into the night air. At least that’s what he was doing when he wasn’t talking about the various shots of the hunt, which, with a good deal of Captain Marsden’s expert recollections, they had been able to number exactly. And the conversation also had much detailing of how the margrave had wildcatted his gun and ammunition. And of course, they offered an endless deal of every aspect of the hunt itself, even by some people who hadn’t been there.

  While all of this was very useful—even if the information itself wasn’t, it highlighted bits of personality both new and familiar—especially the margrave’s accounts of personalizing his firearms, Ian drifted in and out focus. By virtue of the brief but dramatic role Ian had played, he was periodically hailed upon, to which he at first joked about in passing, but by the bygone reference he would only quietly smile about it.

  The divergence between fates couldn’t have been more striking. Ian had seen men die before, but it seemed such a strange thing that everything would be different if events had transpired only even a second or two differently. His party would certainly not be sitting so casually, their stomachs full of the meat they had killed and their attentions idle with security.

  Their evening talk was long, and it passed with little of his notice compared to the long time he lay awake in his makeshift bedding. Shifting patterns played throughout the heavens, and as he periodically took his mind from its own wanderings to try to trace the night’s colors, he couldn’t decide whether what had happened that day had been very nearly awful, or very nearly the best few moments of his life.

  Chapter 8

  “The last I knew, Your Excellency, Orinoco was a why, not a where. A thing to be traded across tables for currency in grandeur, not an actual place to be visited.”

  —Boldin James Threslocke, in His Majesty’s court

  Wednesday dawned bright and hot, its whispers noticed even before breakfast was accounted for.

  “It’ll be a devil,” Lieutenant Taylor said from over his skillet, “heat’s in the air already.”

  Let it come, thought Ian. And even though he knew such sentiments were at least a little foolhardy, the morning had brought new energies and ambitions fresh with it.

  They had all been up early, the margrave carefully examining yesterday’s trophies. Lord Wester’s was of course the prime specimen, but Rory’s largest bull was also well considered.

  Ian classified it as the largest because Rory had ended up with two bulls, one of them having been a bull that Ian had wounded. The first one Ian had shot had also been dropped by Captain Marsden, which ended up giving Ian no bulls to show for against Rory’s two rather impressive kills. All of this was a tremendously bad start for Ian to their overall wager. He acknowledged this politely, though not frequently, and in good humor, if not the tiniest bits of good-natured scoff.

  It wasn’t actually the trophies that made his head swim with satisfaction, but the satchels of meat that the Chax were busy loading onto the brisa. He would have interrogated Lieutenant Taylor about how many meals they would provide if Ian wouldn’t have been afraid that would reveal just how full of pride he was. Rory had clearly beaten him yesterday and proven that he was indeed a great shot, but Ian would practice hard and get better, and all he had to do was think of all the meals, all the life and energy he had made possible, and he would be grinning too hard to hide.

  Though it wasn’t just the food that he had won, Ian thought as he watched Elizabeth Wester walk to her father in her white dress and talk quietly. Ian had secured the greatest trophy of the day. Their charge was here, safe and calmly eating breakfast with his daughter. Ian silently reveled when Elizabeth caught sight of him, knowing that she didn’t know what he was he thinking of, what he was seeing.

  They set out a little later than their schedule was usually to begin, partly to accommodate for the late evening and partly because the company was far less concerned now with progress as with finding another hunt for the margrave. They passed another two migrating lines of long buffalo in the grass, but they were several days old and not worth pursuing. Will told the margrave that if he was interested in securing an even larger trophy for himself, smaller lines of bulls, usually only five to ten, were often led by a dominant male that the main herd would cast out for most of the year. These micro herds were somewhat plentiful, but they were much harder to track. The company was therefore tasked with watching for them in the slightly descending plains.

  All this amounted to a good deal of watching the ground, but it allowed much greater looseness in formations and conversations.

  A couple hours after they had started out, Ian wandered next to Corporal Arran Wesshire.

  “Any luck?” Ian asked.

  “No.”

  “Sooner or later someone will find one,” Ian said, “and then it’s your flank’s turn at it.”

  “Your optimism is remarkable,” the corporal said. “Is it prominent in your family?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ian looked off toward the horizon, “to some degree. But in a grimmer sense. My mother—” He stopped at the notion that Corporal Wesshire was listening very intently. Ian’s wariness toward the other hadn’t really diminished from their first day of marching, but he needed to be more careful with his words.

  “Yes?” Corporal Wesshire asked after a long pause.

  “My family just has a lot to deal with,” Ian said.

  “And yours is a large family?” Corporal Wesshire asked.

  Ian shrugged. “I suppose. Are you looking forward to your flank running on a hunt?”

  “It will be a suitable diversion,” the corporal said. “Was your adventure what you had hoped it would be?”

  “Well,” Ian said, “I had hoped that I would have been able to claim at least one trophy. In that way, I suppose it was disappointing.”

  “And that your second was the one who saved your life?”

  Ian smiled a bit. “Maybe. I don’t know which I would’ve preferred if I’d had the choice—him doing that for me, or him getting two trophies from it.”

  “He seems to be an excellent marksman.”

  “Yes, he is,” Ian said quickly. “I wish all of our men could have the kind of experience he’s had growing up—or at least the kind he says he’s had.”

  “Indeed, there is plentiful opportunity here,” Corporal Wesshire said. “Do you regularly support your family financially?”

  “What?” Ian asked, not really taken off guard by the sudden change in themes so much as finally justified. Was that why Ian had come over here? In hopes of this? “Why do you ask?”

  And what was this? A test?

  “Is your father able to adequately provide for your family?” Corporal Wesshire asked. His pace began to slow, and Ian was obliged to as well.

  “My father died a long time ago,” Ian said, not needing to see Corporal Wesshire’s lack of reaction to know that the other man had already deduced that.

  “And so the responsibility falls to you,” the other said.

  “We all work to do our share,” Ian said in a measured cadence.

  “Isn’t that what’s most important?”

  “What do you mean?” Ian asked.

  “If you were offered a choice between remaining with your company, or being able to meet or even exceed all the needs of your family, would you take it?”

  “That would depend on the circumstances.”

  “Of course,” Corporal Wesshire said lightly, “but then your family is therefore important, since it is a possibility.”

  “Yes,” Ian agreed, though an honest twinge wondered whether he would ever choose to leave the army, regardless of the circumstances.


  “And if an opportunity was offered to you now that would vastly exceed those circumstances, would you take it?”

  “I would appreciate it,” Ian said, “if you would tell me whatever it is you ultimately want to say.”

  “Very well,” the corporal looked at him. “There is such an opportunity for you, if you would desire to take it.”

  “To vastly exceed my circumstances?” Ian asked. “Well, to be honest I don’t know if I’ll ever have all that grand of circumstances to want for. I’ve never been as interested in money as most people seem to be.”

  “Not only your circumstances, but those of your family as well.”

  “Vastly?” Ian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But I would have to quit our company for this opportunity?”

  “Possibly,” Corporal Wesshire said, “at some point. Though nothing would be entirely certain.”

  Ian wiped his sleeve at his brow. It wasn’t only the burning of the late morning sun that was making his face feel hot. He instinctively knew he had to be extremely careful now, and that this felt like the sort of offer that needed to be declined.

  “But you are interested,” Corporal Wesshire observed.

  “Of course,” Ian said, “it is a very interesting offer. Most of all I think because it seems very generous of you. Are any of the others going to get the same courtesy?”

  “Of course not,” the corporal said. “There is no one else that begins to approach the requirements this role demands. But this opportunity will be fleeting at best, and comes only with the most stringent of permissions.”

  “I see,” Ian said, feeling something falling inside himself. This would be it then. Their friendship, acquaintance, whatever it had been, with all of its opportunities for knowledge and intellectual exercise would be over if he refused. “And the conditions will be steep, no doubt.”

  “Prudent, not steep,” Corporal Wesshire assured him. “You say your circumstances are not excessive, and that is true. If you already find contentment in what the Over Guard offers, then you will be safe to imagine this new role as doubly rewarding, and in many of the same respects. It would be best to say merely doubly now, for it is undoubtedly greater, but it is safer, and sufficient promise for now.”

  “That is indeed plenty of promise for me,” Ian said, hearing bits of sadness creep into his voice that he couldn’t quite hold back. “Forgive me though, if I seem reluctant.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “What details can you provide of this new role?” Ian asked.

  The other shrugged. “No more than what is practical now. Suffice to say, you would eventually transfer your obligations to a new enterprise, though the transaction would not seem so incredible to you. Indeed, you might even grow impatient once you see how better utilized your talents could be.”

  “It sounds very tempting,” Ian said, “of what you’ve said. But tell me … honestly, what parts of this opportunity are there that would be disagreeable to me?”

  There was only the semblance of a pause, but in it, Ian could imagine all the fantastic words inside the corporal’s mind, the carefully sharpened phrases being considered and ruthlessly discarded.

  There would not be honesty, then.

  “Certainly there are occasional matters disagreeable to any profession,” the corporal said easily, “as in this one. But none readily come to mind, only such sacrifices as are necessary for attaining what you desire. There are no low horizons for great potential. The only matter would be that you may have to resign your commission sometime in the future so as not to conflict with whatever duties you choose to take on.”

  But on what sort of terms would Ian’s resignation be given, or awarded? Likely that was only one of the several disagreeable aspects enjoined to this offer, which would be better for Corporal Wesshire to reveal gradually.

  “Very well,” Ian said, summing himself up. “I will have to refuse.”

  “That is indeed your choice,” the corporal said without hesitation, no doubt well aware that his pitch hadn’t been striking a favorable chord, “though it is in your best interest to reconsider, or at the very least take time to decide.”

  “Are there any further details you can give me?” Ian asked.

  “Not at the present.”

  “Then I don’t need any more time to think it over,” Ian said. “If this were merely a business deal, even of mild immorality or a matter of loyalties, you wouldn’t be so hesitant to say anything about it. But as it is, there must be more that’s disagreeable about it than that, other than having to give up my weary commission. And if this role is not even willing to be honest from the first offer, then there is nothing in it that I want.”

  “Very well,” Corporal Wesshire said, though the edges of ice that crept into his voice indicated it was anything but. “Be advised there are at least two days for any reconsiderations.”

  Ian shook his head. “I won’t.”

  Even as Ian said that his mind was working, trying to think of any salvageable way he might paint his refusal as a rejection of just the offer. But in his gut, he knew that was impossible, that the two were inseparable. Whatever this role consisted of, it had a very good deal to do with who Corporal Wesshire was.

  A choking awkwardness hung between them as they walked. The corporal had been here first, it was nearest to the rest of his flank, and it didn’t seem like he was in a particularly yielding disposition.

  Ian realized it was something of a submission to be the one to leave, but he found he didn’t care all that much. He started off at a pace that he made sure wasn’t too fast.

  “You will regret it,” Corporal Wesshire warned, his head still to the ground, “and perhaps in more than one way.”

  “Good luck,” Ian said in answer, meaning the hunt. But he thought to himself that the corporal might regret it as well, for now Ian knew for certain that he had reason to be wary of the corporal.

  * * * *

  It was not long after that the Chax declared one of the trails they found to be an optimal opportunity for a bull subset. Half of their party was elected to set off after it, consisting of Lord Wester, Will, and an odd half of their company, headed by the captain. Ian wasn’t sure what criteria the captain was running off of, but the captain took both corporals and Rory, throwing their flanks into a kind of temporary mishmash.

  While there was a general wistfulness from the men who were staying behind, especially Kieran, and not absent from Ian’s mind either, a different set of opportunities were afforded to the rest of the company that stayed behind.

  “Rotten luck,” Kieran said as he sulked alongside the brisa, “two days in a row.”

  “Well,” Elizabeth said from atop the brisa as she stretched and swung her legs over the side, facing down at him, “I am sure you will soon have all the more success to make up for it. My father says we will reach several areas tomorrow where there may be four horn beasts to hunt.”

  “I’ll be sure to shoot the first four horn,” Kieran said, “that’s what I’ve really been looking forward to.”

  “I’ll second that,” Ian said as he jogged up beside them. “They’re awfully hard to kill from what I hear.”

  “Of course they are,” Kieran scoffed, “they’re solid bone. There are only a couple vulnerable square feet on their entire bodies.”

  “True, but they also don’t travel in large, protective groups like long buffalo do,” Ian said, switching tactics. He looked up at Elizabeth and hoping his look somehow conveyed that he was just trying to get Kieran’s back up. He also hoped that she knew he was trying to do it to impress her, without actually knowing—or something like that. “They’re practically docile compared to long buffalo.”

  “And you couldn’t even shoot one of those,” Kieran pointed out, somewhat inaccurately.

  “I’ll be sure to shoot a four horn then instead,” Ian said, bowing to Elizabeth, “and when it is the first of its kind for our party, I shall dedic
ate it Your Highness.”

  “A trophy I have always wanted,” Elizabeth’s mouth smiled a bit on the sides, “I’m sure.”

  “If you get one at all,” Kieran said. “I’ll see to it that you don’t.”

  “A wager?” Brodie called from further off, starting toward them. “Is that a wager I hear? A feast for the ears—”

  “Keep your formation,” Kieran called, half-irritably.

  “It may be nice to have a witness,” Ian said, “at least I came back from the last hunt in one piece. If you have any impressive collections or noteworthy possessions, now would be the time to say so.”

  “And am I not noteworthy enough to qualify as an adequate witness?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Of course,” Ian said as Kieran laughed at what the other probably thought was an unrecoverable mistake. “It’s not in matters of blood and bounty that a lady fails to be competent, only that we would want to keep her from such undesirable affairs.”

  “Well put,” Elizabeth said, “though I think you might have a different opinion if you knew some of the women I do.”

  “So what then?” Kieran asked. “Do you really want to make something of it? I doubt a wager would suit your possessions very well. What would you have to bet?”

  Ian had been half-mulling this over as they’d been talking but had nothing to show for it. Racking his mind a little more earnestly, he discovered he really didn’t—

  “You don’t have anything, do you?” Kieran asked, with almost singsong emphasis. “Typical Wilome working ilk, running yourselves ragged complaining about everything you don’t have but never doing anything to change it.”